What will be will be
by acciograce
Summary: Katniss and Peeta struggle to communicate after their secrets have been told and their lives have been forever changed. Takes place before the epilogue in For the Movies.


The thing no one tells you about injury, about trauma - is how long that kind of pain takes to settle in, to root into your life, and become normal.

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><p><strong>CLAUDIUS TEMPLESMITH'S EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH LANE MELLARK<strong>

_**On growing up and coming out in his brother's shadow**_

"_I guess I never planned for people to find out like this. I never planned for people to find out at all," Lane tells me, pausing to exhale as he sips his iced tea. "But now that it's out in the open, I don't regret it. I'm glad to have it off my chest, you know? I'm glad Peeta doesn't have to carry it around anymore, either." _

**LANE MELLARK IN GAY AFFAIR WITH **_**PARKER'S POND **_**HEARTTHROB ZACH THRESH?**

**TheOtherMellark** You're still married, right, ZachThresh?

**ZachThresh** Still married. It's been a minute, man, how are you?

**REPORT: LANE MELLARK TO LEAVE UCLA IN FALL; WILL TRANSFER TO UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN TO BE 'CLOSER TO FAMILY.'**

**CaesarFlickrman** Sources say #MamaMellark is still mad as HELL about the gay secret her sons kept from her.

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><p>It plays out like a scripted soap opera. And even though we tried our best to control the tide, we knew as soon as the initial shockwave of Snow's sins had passed we'd have more questions to answer.<p>

Like, about Prim. Why I'd never mentioned her in any of my interviews. Haymitch did what he could to patch things, setting up an exclusive interview with Claudius for _Haute Cinema_. I told him as little as I could get away with about our rough upbringing, and my desire for Prim to live a normal life. He wrote it like a tragedy with a beautiful, happy ending.

I'm not sure if either of those assessments are entirely true. But it played well. And after working with the school to make sure Prim could still live a normal existence, things are pretty much back on track for her.

The same can't be said for Lane.

With all the talk of secrets and blackmail, and with _my_ secret out in the open, the speculation turned to what Peeta Mellark - Hollywood's golden boy - could have been hiding.

Prison time? A drug problem? A seedy sexual secret of his own? Of course, he was barely in the position to respond to any of the rumors from his hospital bed in Dublin.

When sources started leaking to the press that Peeta's parents hadn't lived together in years, I was relieved - hoped they'd latch onto that. But then the press started speculating about Peeta's dad. If he had some kind of nefarious goings on back in Michigan that the whole family was trying to keep hidden.

I could tell, from the worried glance that passed between Peeta and Lane when they first heard, that wasn't going to fly. It could put Mr. Mellark's business - the one he'd worked so tirelessly at since they were children - at risk. Plus, they both cared far too much for their dad to drag him into everything.

So Lane decided to come out.

He did it in a video, shot in Peeta's hospital room, posted to Twitter. I held the iPhone, trying to keep my hand from shaking, as Lane very quietly and matter-of-factly introduced himself to Peeta's two million plus followers and announced that _he_ was Peeta's secret. Or, the fact that he's gay was.

After the video went up, I kissed Peeta goodnight before impulsively hugging Lane, and took a long walk.

They needed time to talk.

There's been little drama - not the way it played out in the media, anyway - on our end. Some friends and family were upset that he didn't tell them first. He had a teammate or two start in on him. But for the most part, life - at least, life outside Capitol Films - stayed calm.

So now, four weeks after I sat down with Caesar, I should finally be feeling like myself again, right? Everything is falling slowly into place. Plutarch's in the final stages of negotiating a way for us to finish filming _Stars Falling_. Finnick is out of ICU. Peeta's discharged, spending quiet time recovering in a hotel suite the studio rented near the hospital.

But any time I stop the frantic pace I've set for myself since I landed back in Ireland - clearing things up for Prim, working through details with Lane, visiting Finnick, helping Peeta - I feel like I can't breathe.

And the worst part is I don't know why.

* * *

><p>"Whad'ya bring me?"<p>

I give Finnick a pointed look as I stride into his hospital room and set my purse down on his bedside stand. But I have to fight hard to suppress a smile when I see the way he's looking at me - agitated, but somehow hopeful. Like a small child waiting for a reward from Mom.

"Hi yourself," I shoot back as I rifle through my purse before pulling out a Cadbury candy bar.

His eyes light up. "I love you, Katniss."

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble as I check behind me to make sure the coast is clear before handing him the chocolate.

He devours it. And I can't blame him. The doctors here have him on a pretty strict diet - they're trying to pinpoint any potential cause for his seizures. But Finnick complained so much about the shortage of sugar in his diet, Annie caved and gave him part of the cookie she'd snagged from the hospital cafeteria one night. 24 hours later, he still hadn't had another seizure, and we all figured he was in the clear.

Which was good news for Finnick - he's always had a sweet tooth.

"So," he says in between bites as he presses his head into the elevated mattress behind him. "How's Peeta?"

I eye him carefully before responding. "He hasn't come to see you?"

Finnick shrugs, "Not in a few days. He seemed kind of…"

He doesn't need to fill in the blank. I know exactly what he means. So I quickly change the subject.

"How's your head?"

Finnick manages a pitiful smile in response. "Not quite as pretty as it used to be, or so I'm told. But at least I know who I am, and who the president is, and how many fingers, and…"

"Yeah," I agree quietly, letting my gaze fall into my lap. "At least."

"I think they're gonna let me out soon," he says, feigning a sunny disposition. "Maybe at the end of the week. Then it's home sweet home."

_Home sweet home_. Not just for him.

Because when we all regrouped back here - before we even knew whether Finnick was going to live - Peeta, Johanna, Cressida and I agreed on one thing. That we wouldn't leave Ireland, wouldn't go back home, until we knew he could come with us.

So even though Peeta was out of the hospital two weeks ago; even though they shut production down permanently, with the promise that they'd resume on a Capitol soundstage back in L.A. when the time came, we stayed. We waited.

Because Finnick, despite his aloof exterior, would have done the same for us.

"You okay?" He asks, concerned, as I stare past him at the dirty gray day outside his window.

It's my turn to shrug. "I'll be fine."

* * *

><p>"How is he?"<p>

It's the one question I've been asked the most. It's the one question I struggle the most to answer.

How is he? Physically, on the mend.

Mentally? Emotionally?

Well, how is _anyone_ these days?

In some ways, Peeta's better off than all of us. He doesn't cry all the time like Annie. He doesn't get angry and curse at the paparazzi like Johanna. He isn't facing a life of unexpected seizures like Finnick.

He isn't having nightmares, like me.

But he's not…

God, it hurts to think it. I can't even _say _it.

He's not Peeta.

I mean, who could expect him to be? After everything we've been through - everything _he's_ been through. Normal people would have a hard time dealing with just _one_ of the major events he's had to endure. A life-altering car accident. Upheaval in his career. A good friend nearly dying. Being wrapped up in the biggest Hollywood scandal in decades. His younger brother, who he fought to protect for years, coming out.

If he were angry or sad or anxious, I wouldn't think any less of him. But if he's feeling _anything_, he's not showing it. At least, not to me.

And he used to tell me everything.

Now, he seems like he's living on some kind of delay. He smiles when prompted, laughs appropriately at Haymitch's inappropriate jokes, and hugs me close whenever I lean into his embrace. But the fervor he used to approach life with - the passion and energy that drove everything he did - is completely gone.

Some nights, I ask him if something is wrong.

And he'll look at me, giving the best impression he can muster of a genuine Peeta smile, and tell me not to worry.

He'll tell me, "Leg hurts today," or, "I didn't sleep well last night," or, "I'm fine."

And I'll pretend to believe him, because I know that he wants me to.

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><p>Peeta doesn't want the paparazzi to see his limp.<p>

He doesn't say so, but I can see it - in the way his eyes dart nervously around when we make our way out of LAX.

I wrap my arm through his, thinking he might need the extra support. I remember how he did this for me in Ithaca.

We walk through the crowd together, heads held high. And I pull him just a little bit closer as the photographers start firing questions.

"Peeta, what was it like to have a near-death experience?"

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><p>It's that he won't even tell me, I think. That's what is scariest. I'm his girlfriend. And even though that hasn't been the case for long, he's been extraordinarily open with how he feels about nearly everything since we started getting to know each other. From muenster cheese to the <em>Twilight<em> series, I know exactly where he stands on most issues.

Except when it comes to how he feels about the accident.

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><p>He sits at his kitchen counter, his leg - still in the cast - stretched awkwardly stiff off the bar stool, as he gently steeps his tea, and reaches for the glass canister that holds sugar packets.<p>

When he opens it, he sighs. And I realize, as he leverages the counter to push himself up, that it's because it's empty.

"Let me," I tell him, turning to move toward the cabinet.

"No," he snaps.

It's amazing what a single word can do to your system. Tie your stomach in knots, make your heart sink.

It takes him two minutes to limp across the kitchen and retrieve the box in the cabinet.

I don't say another word.

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><p>It becomes habit.<p>

I come over. We sit. We talk about things that don't matter. What's on TV, or how crazy it is that it's almost Christmas.

We don't talk about the fact that we missed Thanksgiving, and didn't even realize it, when he was in the hospital.

We talk about the weather.

When the cast comes off, there's a part of me that hopes it will get better. That shedding the physical reminder of the accident will change things.

I hug him when he walks, slowly, back into the doctor's waiting room. And with one hand still wrapped around his crutch, he hugs me back. I sink into him and murmur into his neck.

"I love you."

I haven't said it in weeks.

"I love you, too," he tells me. But the warmth I feel in his body is still absent in his words.

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><p>The next day, I stop by Peeta's house in the morning to pick him up for his first physical therapy session.<p>

His living room is destroyed when I walk through the front door. Couch overturned, glass coffee table laying in shards on the carpet.

I'm almost crying - somewhere between panicked and terrified - as I tear through the house, calling Peeta's name.

"In here."

I follow the voice to his bedroom. And I stand in the doorway, paralyzed, a low, aching devastation coursing through me as I take it all in.

The spotted trail of blood across the hardwood floor. The crutches, strewn angrily in the corner. The crumpled young man in the corner, hunched over himself, a red, saturated dishcloth wrapped around his fist.

"Peeta," I breathe.

He looks up at me, and when his bloodshot, wet blue eyes meet mine, I realize how long it's been since we've _looked_ at each other.

"I got mad," he says plainly - like he's telling me the time. And it's all he has to say for me to understand the chaos I've just encountered.

I want to move - want to go to him, wrap myself around him, but I can't move.

"Are you okay?"

He nods, tightening his grip on the towel in his hand. "I'm fine," he says. But his voice breaks as the words come out.

It's what snaps me into action. In seconds, I'm on the other side of the room, sliding against the wall to sit next to him. I move gingerly, taking his injured hand in mine and trying to ignore the rolling nausea in my stomach as I unwrap the towel and assess the damage he's done.

"Katniss," he mutters as my eyes widen. The gash - from the glass table, probably - is deep. He'll definitely need stitches.

"It's gonna be okay," I tell him urgently. "This is easy to fix."

But when our eyes meet again, I realize just how false it sounds. Because the wound is, but the rest of it is not.

"I'm sorry," he says, the words thick in his throat. "This isn't fair to you."

I swallow a lump in my throat as I eye him, warily. "You think I'm worried about me right now?"

He laughs. And the sound resonates into my chest, pushing the air I desperately need through me; invigorating me.

It's more than I let myself hope for, the sound.

It feels like healing.

* * *

><p>We stay up all night talking. Peeta cries. I cry.<p>

He got a call from Annie this afternoon. Finnick's back in the hospital - a precaution, after an unexpected seizure.

"I said I'd drive," Peeta tells me, running a hand absently over his bandaged palm. "Finnick said -"

His voice catches. He swallows.

"Finnick said he wanted to redeem himself. After Cahersiveen. Cress said we should let him, you know? Give him another chance."

The raw guilt in his eyes makes my stomach twist.

"I should have been driving."

I shake my head, "You didn't know. You couldn't have known."

"I walked out of the hospital. I get my life back. And Finnick…" He shakes his head, defeated.

"He's alive," I murmur, running a hand along his arm. "At least he's alive."

Peeta nods. He closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. "And Lane. I just… it isn't fair. That he didn't have a choice."

"I know," I agree.

"I've never hated anyone like this," he says, as though he's ashamed. "I don't know what to do with it."

I think of Snow - under house arrest, now, awaiting a trial that's still months away. And I get it.

"He doesn't get his life back, either," I remind him.

But Peeta's answer rings a little bit too true. "It's not the same."

We drink wine. I kiss him once, sitting beside him on the patio as the sun starts to come up.

He kisses me back. And I feel, in the way his fingertips clutch gently at my waist, that he's coming back to me.

We sleep all day, and wake up, tangled together, in his bed.

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><p>I dream about planes crashing. Peeta screaming. Prim, still just a baby, tripping and almost falling into a bonfire.<p>

My eyes flutter open, registering dark and the concerned face in front of mine.

Peeta's awake, but just barely - clearly stirred into consciousness by my violent slumber. He wraps his body around mine, pressing comforting kisses against my neck and shoulder.

"I've had them, too," he tells me, pulling me closer.

"I'm sorry," I say, leaning back gratefully against him.

"You're okay," he reminds me, his voice rough, as he snakes a hand around my waist and curls his fingers in mine.

"I know."

"Can you sleep?"

The fact that he knows to ask the question - knows that I can't, knows I'll answer - fills me with a content warmth. One that feels like relief.

"No."

"Neither can I."

"Really?" I ask, a teasing smile playing on my lips as I turn in his embrace. His face is so close to mine, I can make out the tiny details I've memorized. Flecks of brown - just a few - in his eyes. The tiny scar on his temple. The dry, temptingly pink skin of his lips.

"Katniss."

He says my name like it's desire, melting the word to my skin as he breathes it. He trails a hand down my arm, drawing goosebumps and a happy, hesitant sigh from my mouth.

"I missed you," I tell him quietly, pressing my hand against his bare chest.

He answers with a kiss, cupping my face in his hands as his warms lip meet mine. It's the kind of kiss that already feels like something more - an invitation I gladly accept. I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my fingernails into his shoulder blades as I wrap my legs around him.

In the days since his incident, we've spent hours talking through the painful regrets, the guilt-ridden anger, the empty sorrow over the diverted path our loved ones' lives had to take.

And at night, as we've fallen into bed and found the kind of comfort no words can bring in each other, I've started to let myself imagine this. Heat-seeking kisses, and moans and his skin against mine.

I thought it would be desperate, the first time. Clothes ripped off and our bodies crashing together - unable to wait for the intimacy, the aching pleasure, that we've gone without for so long.

But we go slow. Fingers trace ribs and curves and muscles as our tongues tangle and our breathing picks up.

One by one - my nightshirt, his boxer-briefs, and finally my underwear - are discarded.

It feels like we're re-aquainting ourselves; remembering the secrets our bodies keep for each other. Peeta moans when his hand cups my breast. I gasp against his mouth when my hand wraps around his erection and feel the moisture already gathering there.

And when I arch up against him, as he rolls me onto my back and gently pushes my legs apart with his good knee, I see the way he's looking down at me. And he doesn't even have to speak to tell me how much he loves me.

It was still so new, when we were in Ireland. And it's been so long since we've had each other. So even though I'm more than ready for him - gasping in anticipation of his body inside mine - I feel a dull pain as he pushes inside me.

He must see it in my face - the twinge of my brow as I adjust to him. He props himself up, gently brushing the hair off my face, and leans down to kiss me, mumbling an apology against my lips.

"It's okay," I tell him, pushing my forehead into his shoulder. "It's not always gonna hurt."

He rocks his hips into mine - slowly, gently, pushing down just slightly so his pelvic bone brushes against me, eliciting a moan.

We barely move at first. And I'm almost overwhelmed with how good even the slowest, smallest motions of our hips together can feel.

I quiver against him, hands locked on his hipbones, mesmerized by how erotic it is to watch him move into me.

"You feel perfect," he gasps against my skin, lips sticky against my sweat-damp breastbone. "Can we do this forever?"

I lift my hips up to meet his thrusts, moaning out a quiet yes that I know I'll still mean even after he brings me over the edge.

Because I know I want to begin and end every day just like this. Him and me, him in me.

"Oh God, I fucking love you," he gasps, his hips finally settling into the pace we both need.

I clutch at him, my hands pushing into his lower back, encouraging his movements as he drives into me.

"I need to," I beg, and a moment later his thumb brushes my clit.

The words that tumble out of my mouth are barely coherent as I fall apart underneath him. I tell him, as I come hard around him, that I love him, I love him, I love him.

And then he stills, too, grasping the pillow next to my head as he comes with a moan, rocking his hips into me in a staccato rhythm.

We collapse against each other, still panting. He smiles as he kisses his way up my neck.

And I laugh, because we're going to be fine.

-end-

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><p><strong>Author's note: I originally submitted this for Fandom 4LLS. It doesn't quite work as a deleted scene, so it's really just more of a standalone piece of the For the Movies universe. Thanks for your continued support for the story and my writing! Happy Holidays!<strong>


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